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Jon Snow (Almost 7)
The morning sun caught the steel of their practice swords as they rang together in the training yard, and Jon felt the familiar thrill of knowing exactly where Robb would strike before his half-brother even moved. It was like reading a book written in muscle and breath, every tell as clear as letters on parchment.
"You're getting predictable, brother," Jon said with a grin, dancing away from Robb's overhead swing. "That's the same move you tried yesterday. And the day before that."
"Predictable?" Robb panted, already breathing harder than Jon despite being older and bigger. "I'll show you predictable, you smug bastard."
"Ooh, such creative insults from the future Lord of Winterfell," Jon laughed, his violet eyes bright with mischief. "Did you learn that one from Old Nan? Because I think she called the kitchen cat worse things yesterday."
Ser Rodrik cleared his throat from where he stood watching, his white whiskers twitching with amusement. "Less talking, more fighting, lads. Though I must say, Jon, your footwork has improved considerably since your father's return."
Jon beamed at the praise, feeling taller somehow. In the past week, since Father had come home and told him about his mother being beautiful and highborn, something had shifted inside him. The nervous boy who'd tried to lose on purpose was gone, replaced by someone who felt worthy of winning.
"Thank you, Ser Rodrik. I've been practicing the moves you showed us." Jon spun his wooden blade in a lazy circle, showing off just a little. "Though I think Robb's been practicing how to miss more than how to hit."
"Ha!" Robb lunged forward with renewed energy. "Let's see you dodge this one, violet eyes!"
The nickname made Jon pause for just a moment. Violet eyes. Most people tried not to mention his unusual coloring, as if pretending it wasn't there would make the questions about his parentage disappear. But Robb said it like it was something interesting rather than shameful.
"Violet eyes, is it?" Jon parried Robb's strike and countered with a quick thrust that stopped just short of his brother's ribs. "Better than mud-brown eyes like yours. At least mine are memorable."
"Memorable? They're weird," Robb shot back, but he was grinning. "Like looking at a girl's face stuck on a boy's head."
"Careful, brother. Some girls might take offense at being compared to me. I'm obviously much prettier than any girl you've ever seen."
The absurdity of it made them both burst into laughter, and even Ser Rodrik chuckled. Jon felt a warm glow in his chest at the easy camaraderie. This was what he'd been missing when he'd held back, when he'd tried to be small and forgettable. This was what it felt like to be an equal.
"Again," Ser Rodrik called, and they resumed their positions.
This time Jon didn't hold back at all. He moved like water, flowing around Robb's attacks and responding with combinations that left his half-brother scrambling to keep up. When he finally tapped Robb's sword arm with his blade, signaling the end of the bout, both boys were breathing hard but Jon was clearly the less winded of the two.
"How did you get so good so fast?" Robb asked, pushing sweaty hair out of his eyes. "It's like you've been training with the gods themselves."
Jon shrugged, twirling his practice sword with unconscious grace. "Maybe I have. Maybe the old gods decided one bastard deserved a fighting chance."
"The old gods have strange tastes then," came a cool voice from above.
All three males looked up to see Lady Catelyn watching from one of the keep's windows, her blue eyes fixed on Jon with an expression that could have frozen summer wine. Jon felt his newfound confidence falter for just a moment, the old urge to apologize and shrink away rising in his chest.
But then he remembered his father's words about reaching high, about never letting anyone make him feel lesser because of his name. Jon straightened his shoulders and met Lady Catelyn's gaze directly, offering her a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Good morning, my lady," he called up to her, his voice carrying clearly across the courtyard. "Beautiful day for watching swordplay, isn't it?"
Lady Catelyn's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before she stepped back from the window, disappearing into the shadows of the keep.
"You're going to get in trouble for that," Robb said quietly, but there was admiration in his voice.
"Probably," Jon agreed, feeling strangely exhilarated by the brief confrontation. "But I'm tired of pretending to be sorry for existing."
Ser Rodrik watched this exchange with thoughtful eyes, noting how the bastard boy seemed to have grown not just in skill but in presence over the past week. The child was developing something indefinable, a magnetism that drew attention whether people wanted to give it or not.
"Well then," the master-at-arms said finally, "let's see if this new confidence serves you as well in the real work. Twenty laps around the yard, both of you. And Jon?"
"Yes, Ser Rodrik?"
"Keep that chin up, lad. But mind you don't lift it so high you can't see the ground."
Jon grinned and started running, Robb beside him, both boys' laughter echoing off the ancient stones of Winterfell. Above them, behind a different window, Ned Stark watched his son with a mixture of pride and concern, wondering if the boy was growing too bold too fast.
But when Jon looked up and waved, flashing that brilliant smile that reminded Ned so powerfully of Ashara it was like a knife to the heart, the Lord of Winterfell found himself waving back.
Some things, he supposed, were worth the trouble they might bring.
Age 8
The heart tree's carved face watched with its eternal weeping eyes as Jon and Robb circled each other in the dappled shade of the godswood, wooden swords at the ready. Here, away from Ser Rodrik's watchful gaze and the servants' whispers, they could practice the moves that were probably too advanced for boys their age.
"Ready to lose again, my lord?" Jon asked with mock formality, sweeping an elaborate bow that would have made Septa Mordane proud. "I promise to let you keep some of your dignity this time."
"Dignity is overrated," Robb shot back, already moving into his guard position. "Besides, I've been working on something special just for you, bastard brother."
"Oh, terrifying. Let me guess, you've learned how to fall down in a completely new way?"
They came together in a flurry of wooden blades, the sound echoing off the ancient trees. Jon moved fast, his violet eyes tracking every shift in Robb's stance, every telegraph of his next move. It was almost unfair, really, how much faster his reflexes had become since his fever. Almost.
"There's that bastard luck again," Robb panted as Jon's blade found its way past his guard for the third time in as many minutes. "Do you make deals with demons when I'm not looking? Sell your soul for sword skills?"
"My soul?" Jon laughed, dancing backward with easy grace. "What would a demon want with a bastard's soul? Though I suppose it would explain your lordly footwork. Did you trade your balance to the Others for that heir's arrogance?"
"My footwork is perfectly lordly, thank you very much. It's refined. Elegant."
"It's slow as a pregnant cow," Jon countered, pressing his attack. "Maybe you should ask Father to find you a dancing master instead of a sword master."
"Dancing master? I'll show you dancing!" Robb launched into an aggressive combination that was more enthusiasm than technique, and Jon had to admit his brother was improving, even if he wasn't improving fast enough.
The bout ended with Jon's practice blade at Robb's throat, both boys breathing hard but grinning widely.
"One of these days," Robb said, lowering his sword, "I'm going to figure out how you do that thing where you know where I'm going to attack before I do."
"Magic," Jon said solemnly. "Definitely magic. Or maybe you're just loud about everything, including your sword work."
"Loud? I'm not loud!"
"You're shouting right now."
"I'm not shouting, I'm speaking firmly!"
"Like a lord," Jon agreed with a perfectly straight face. "Very lordly shouting."
Their laughter was interrupted by the sound of footsteps crunching through fallen leaves. Theon Greyjoy emerged from behind a massive oak, his golden-green eyes taking in the scene with calculating interest.
"Well, well," Theon said, his voice carrying that particular tone that always made Jon's hackles rise. "The infamous bastard and the future lord, playing at swords like real knights. How adorable."
Jon felt his jaw tighten, but before he could respond, Robb stepped slightly forward. "We're practicing, Theon. You could join us if you want."
"Practice?" Theon's smile was sharp as a blade. "Against him? I thought you were supposed to be learning how to fight, not how to lose gracefully."
Jon studied Theon for a long moment, noting the way the older boy held himself, the subtle challenge in his posture. He could respond with anger, could let his temper flare the way it wanted to. Or...
"You know, Theon," Jon said thoughtfully, "for someone who's supposed to be a guest in our home, you certainly have strong opinions about how we spend our time."
"I'm not a guest," Theon replied stiffly. "I'm a ward."
"Ah yes, my mistake." Jon's smile was all innocence. "A ward. That's so much better than a guest. More permanent. More... secure."
Theon's face flushed, and for a moment Jon thought the older boy might actually swing at him. But then Theon surprised him by laughing, a genuinely amused sound.
"Clever little bastard, aren't you? I suppose they can't all be stupid."
It wasn't quite an apology, but it wasn't pure hostility either. Jon found himself reassessing the Greyjoy heir, seeing past the arrogance to something that might have been loneliness.
"Clever enough," Jon agreed mildly. "And apparently entertaining enough to make a kraken laugh. That's got to be worth something."
Robb looked between them with visible relief, clearly happy to see the tension defusing. "So, Theon, do you want to spar with us or just stand there making comments?"
Theon hefted his own practice sword, testing its weight. "Why not? Though I should warn you both, on the Iron Islands we learn to fight before we learn to walk."
"On the Iron Islands," Jon replied sweetly, "do you also learn to swim before you learn to sink? Because that might come in handy."
This time all three boys laughed.
Maybe Theon Greyjoy could be more than just another enemy after all.
One Month Later - Jon Snow (Age 8)
The sunlight illuminated the library of Winterfell, and Jon found himself more fascinated by the ledger spread before him than he'd ever been by any of Old Nan's stories. Numbers, it turned out, could tell tales just as exciting as dragons and knights, especially when those numbers represented the wealth of the North.
"The wool trade from the mountain clans brings in nearly three thousand gold dragons annually," Jon read aloud, his finger tracing the carefully recorded figures. "But that's only if the shipments reach White Harbor before the autumn storms. Maester Luwin, why don't we negotiate contracts that account for weather delays?"
Across the table, Robb looked up from his own book with an expression of barely concealed bewilderment. "Jon, how do you even understand what those numbers mean? Last year you were asking me how to spell 'knight' and now you're talking about trade contracts like you're Father's steward."
"Maybe the fever cooked his brain just right," Maester Luwin suggested with twinkling eyes, clearly delighted by his student's progress. "Like an egg that's been boiled to perfection."
Jon grinned at the comparison. "If that's true, then I'm definitely your favorite student now, aren't I, Maester? Poor Robb here is still raw as a summer egg."
"I am not raw!" Robb protested, then glanced down at his own book where he'd been struggling with a passage about the Dance of Dragons for the better part of an hour. "I'm just... taking my time to fully appreciate the complexity of the material."
"Is that what we're calling it?" Jon asked innocently. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've been staring at the same page since we got here. Are you waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something more interesting?"
Robb threw a quill at him, which Jon dodged with ease. "Not all of us can suddenly read like maesters, you know. Some of us are still normal."
"Normal is overrated," Jon replied. "Besides, if my sickness gave me special powers, I'd much rather have the ability to fly like a dragon. Just imagine the look on your face when I came swooping down from the sky."
"You'd probably crash into the first tree you tried to fly over," Robb countered. "Dragons are graceful. You trip over your own feet half the time."
"That was one time! And there was ice on the steps!"
Maester Luwin cleared his throat, though his eyes were still amused. "Perhaps we could return to the lesson? Jon, you had questions about White Harbor?"
Jon straightened immediately, his attention snapping back to the ledgers with obvious enthusiasm. "Yes, actually. White Harbor is the southernmost castle that belongs to the North, which means it is our main port for trade with the southern kingdoms. But according to these records, we're not using it nearly as much as we could be."
"Go on," Luwin encouraged, clearly impressed by the boy's reasoning.
"Well, the Manderlys control White Harbor, and they're loyal to Father. So why aren't we negotiating better deals for shipping Northern goods south? We could be making much more money on our grain exports, especially during years when the southern harvests are poor."
Robb looked between Jon and the maester with growing confusion. "Are you two speaking a different language? What do grain exports have to do with anything?"
"Everything," Jon said earnestly. "Robb, think about it. Every time Father has to raise men for war, it costs money. Every time we have a harsh winter, we need to buy supplies from the south. But if we're smarter about our trade relationships, we could build up enough wealth to weather any crisis."
Maester Luwin nodded approvingly. "Wise words, Jon. And you're quite right about White Harbor. The Manderlys have been underutilized as trade partners. Perhaps you'd like to read about the shipping contracts they negotiated with Braavos last year?"
"Yes, please," Jon said immediately, his violet eyes lighting up with genuine excitement.
Robb shook his head in amazement. "I swear, sometimes I think you enjoy studying more than sword fighting. What kind of Stark are you?"
"The kind that wants to understand everything," Jon replied simply. "Besides, knowledge is just another kind of weapon, isn't it? And I intend to collect as many weapons as I can."
Maester Luwin handed him another ledger, this one bound in blue leather with the Manderly seal stamped on the cover. "Then let's see how sharp we can make your mind, young Jon. After all, the pen and the sword should work in harmony."
Six Months Later - Arya Stark (2)
The great hall of Winterfell had hosted kings and queens, lords and ladies, warriors and bards throughout its long history, but Jon was fairly certain none of them had ever produced sounds quite as ear-splitting as the ones currently emanating from his two-year-old sister.
"NO! NO! NO!" Arya shrieked from where she sat in the middle of the stone floor, her little fists clenched and her face red as a summer apple. The pale blue dress that Catelyn had so carefully selected for her lay in a crumpled heap nearby, apparently flung there with all the dramatic flair a toddler could muster.
"Arya, sweetling, please," Catelyn said, her voice strained with the particular exhaustion that only came from battling a determined two-year-old. "It's such a pretty dress. See how it matches your eyes?"
"NO DESS!" Arya wailed, as if the very concept of feminine clothing was a personal insult. "NO! NO! NO!"
Robb knelt down beside his little sister, trying his most charming smile. "Come on, Arya. If you put on the dress, I'll show you how to hold a sword properly later."
For a moment, Arya's crying subsided as she considered this offer. Then her bottom lip trembled, and she let out an even louder wail. "NO SOWDS! NO DESS! NO!"
"Well, that backfired spectacularly," Robb muttered, standing up and brushing dust from his knees. "I thought she liked swords."
"She does like swords," Sansa said primly from where she sat nearby, her own dress perfectly arranged and her hair neatly braided, looking down at Arya with disgust. "She just doesn't like being told what to do. Ever. About anything."
Septa Mordane, who had been attempting to approach with a bowl of porridge, made the mistake of getting within arm's reach. Arya's little hand shot out faster than anyone expected, and suddenly there was breakfast decorating the septa's wimple.
"Lady Arya!" Septa Mordane gasped, porridge dripping from her chin. "That is not how young ladies behave!"
"NOT LADY!" Arya declared with fierce pride, as if she'd just delivered the most devastating insult in the Common Tongue. "NO LADY! NO!"
Jon appeared in the doorway just as Arya was gearing up for what looked like an even more spectacular tantrum. He took in the scene: the rejected dress, the porridge-covered septa, Lady Stark's frazzled expression, and Robb's helpless shrug.
"What seems to be the problem here?" Jon asked mildly, as if he'd walked into a perfectly normal family breakfast rather than what looked like a small-scale rebellion.
The moment Arya heard his voice, her crying stopped as if someone had closed a door. She turned toward him with a gap-toothed grin that transformed her tear-streaked face completely.
"JON!" she squealed, scrambling to her feet and running toward him with arms outstretched. "Jon! Jon! Jon!"
He scooped her up easily, and she immediately buried her face in his neck, her tiny arms wrapping around him like he was the most precious thing in the world.
"There's my little wolf," Jon murmured, smoothing down her wild dark hair. "What's all this fuss about? Are you giving everyone trouble again?"
"No dess," Arya mumbled against his shoulder, but without any of the fury from moments before. "Ugwy dess."
"Ah, I see. A fashion disagreement." Jon nodded solemnly, as if this was a matter of the gravest importance. "Well, we can't have you wearing ugly dresses, can we? That would be a crime against beauty itself."
Catelyn watched this exchange with a mixture of relief and something that might have been resentment. How did he do it? How did a nine-year-old bastard manage to calm her daughter when she, the child's own mother, could not?
"Perhaps," Jon continued thoughtfully, "we could find a compromise? Something that's not quite so... dressy?"
Arya pulled back to look at him with those serious gray eyes that were so much like Ned's. "No comp-mise."
"No compromise at all?" Jon asked, feigning shock. "Not even a tiny one? What if we found you something that was almost like a dress but not quite? Something a warrior princess might wear to breakfast?"
The concept of being a warrior princess clearly appealed to Arya's sensibilities. She considered this for a long moment, her little brow furrowed in concentration.
"War-wior... pin-cess?" she repeated slowly, testing the words.
"Exactly. Warrior princesses need to dress appropriately for battle, don't they? Even breakfast battles."
Arya giggled at that. "Bek-fast battle!"
"The fiercest kind," Jon agreed solemnly. "Now, shall we see what we can find in your wardrobe that's suitable for such important work?"
As Jon carried his sister from the hall, Arya chattering happily in his ear about warrior princesses and breakfast battles, Catelyn found herself staring after them with complicated emotions swirling in her chest.
Why did her own daughter love the bastard so much more than she loved her own mother?
Two Months Later - Jon Snow (9). Year Late 292 AC
The soft cry of a newborn echoed through Winterfell's corridors as Jon stood outside of Lady Stark's chambers with his siblings, all of them waiting to meet the newest member of their peculiar family. At nine, Jon was old enough to understand the politics of birth order and inheritance, old enough to know that this baby would push him even further down the line of people who mattered. Strangely, he found he didn't mind as much as he thought he would.
"I hope it's a sister," Sansa said for the dozenth time, smoothing her perfectly arranged skirts. "We need more ladies in this family. All these boys are so... loud."
"Loud?" Robb protested from where he was trying to peek through the door crack. "We're not loud, we're enthusiastic."
"Jon sing," Arya announced suddenly from where she was clinging to Jon's leg like a determined burr. She looked up at him with those serious gray eyes. "Jon sing now?"
"Not now, little wolf," Jon said gently, scooping her up because she was getting better at climbing but hadn't quite mastered the art of not falling. "We need to be quiet for Mother and the baby."
"Baby?" Arya's brow furrowed with the confusion of someone still figuring out how the world worked. "Where baby?"
"Inside with Mother," Robb explained, though he looked just as confused as Arya about the whole process. "Maester Luwin is helping."
Arya considered this with the gravity of a maester pondering ancient texts. "Baby... stuck?"
Jon couldn't help but grin at her logic. "Not stuck exactly. Just... taking his time making an entrance. Some people like to be fashionably late."
"Unlike you when there's food involved," Robb added. "You're never fashionably late to meals."
"That's because I have priorities," Jon replied with dignity. "Food is important. Arriving fashionably late to breakfast just means arriving to an empty table and disappointed cooks."
The door opened before their banter could continue, and Maester Luwin emerged with a smile that seemed to light up his entire weathered face.
"You have a brother," he announced. "A healthy boy, born just as the sun reached its peak. Your mother is tired but well, and she's ready to meet you."
"Another brother?" Sansa's face fell comically. "Really? Are we ever going to have another sister?"
"Baby brother?" Arya asked, perking up with sudden interest. "Little baby?"
"Very little," Jon confirmed. "Smaller than you, if you can imagine that."
"Me big!" Arya declared proudly, puffing out her chest.
They filed into the chamber quietly, Jon carrying Arya because she refused to be put down when she was curious about something new. Catelyn looked pale, her auburn hair spread across the pillows like spilled copper, and in her arms was a bundle that could only be their new brother. Lord Stark stood nearby, looking proud and happy.
"Come meet Brandon," she said softly, her voice warm with exhaustion and joy. "Named for your father's brother."
Jon felt a small pang at that. Another brother named for a dead Stark, another reminder of the family that had been lost before he was born. But when Catelyn adjusted the blankets so they could see the baby's face, all melancholy thoughts fled.
The baby was perfect. Tiny and red-faced, with wispy auburn hair like his mother's and eyes that would probably turn Tully blue if they followed the family pattern. But there was something in his expression, even sleeping, that reminded Jon of Father when he was thinking deeply about something important.
"He's beautiful," Jon said quietly, meaning it completely.
"Pretty baby," Arya whispered, reaching out one small finger toward the bundle. "Tiny."
"May I?" Robb asked, and when Catelyn nodded, he carefully took the baby into his arms. For a moment, the future Lord of Winterfell looked exactly like what he was: a nine-year-old boy holding something infinitely precious and slightly terrifying.
"Hello, Bran," Robb murmured. "I'm your big brother Robb. I'm going to teach you everything important: sword fighting, riding, and how to sing properly, unlike Jon here."
"I sing perfectly well, thank you," Jon protested mildly. "Better than you, certainly."
"Ha! You sing like a dying cat."
"A melodic dying cat," Jon corrected. "There's a difference."
"Jon sing good," Arya said loyally, though she was mostly focused on the baby. "Jon sing pretty."
To prove his point, and perhaps to soothe the baby who was starting to fuss slightly, Jon began to hum a gentle tune that Old Nan sometimes sang to Arya. His voice, which had been changing over the past months, carried a clarity and sweetness that made everyone in the room pause and listen.
The baby immediately quieted, tiny eyes seeming to focus on the source of the sound. Even Lady Catelyn looked surprised by the pure, melodic quality of Jon's voice.
"See?" Jon said softly, finishing the tune. "Some of us have hidden talents."
"Show off," Robb muttered, but he was grinning. "Though I suppose it's better than your sword work."
"My sword work is excellent and you know it."
"Baby like," Arya observed with satisfaction, as if she'd personally arranged for Jon's singing to have this effect.
When Robb carefully placed the baby in Jon's arms, Jon felt that familiar protective instinct rise in his chest, the same feeling he'd had when Arya was born but somehow stronger.
"Hello, little brother," Jon said softly, his voice carrying just a hint of melody even in speech. "Welcome to the madness that is our family. Don't worry, I'll make sure you survive it. And if you're very lucky, I might even sing you to sleep when the nightmares come."
Bran gurgled softly, tiny fingers grasping at air, and Jon felt his heart expand to make room for another person to love and protect.
Another Stark to call family, even if only half of his blood ran in Jon's veins.
It was enough. It was more than enough.
Three Months Later - Sansa Stark (7) Jon Snow and Robb Stark are (10)
Sansa sat with perfect posture, her small hands folded neatly in her lap as Septa Mordane demonstrated the proper way to embroider a rose. Everything about the lesson felt right to Sansa: the quiet dignity of the work, the precise movements required, the way the threads created something beautiful from nothing but patience and skill.
"Very good, Lady Sansa," Septa Mordane praised as Sansa carefully guided her needle through the fabric. "Your stitches are becoming quite even. Soon you'll be creating pieces worthy of a great lady's wardrobe."
Sansa glowed at the praise, sitting up even straighter. She loved these lessons, loved the way Septa Mordane spoke to her like she was already grown, already important. "Thank you, Septa. I've been practicing every evening after my brothers finish their sword lessons."
"Your brothers?" Septa Mordane's voice carried just the slightest note of correction. "You mean your brother Robb and your half-brother Jon, I presume?"
The words made Sansa pause, her needle hovering above the fabric. Half-brother. She'd heard the term before, of course, whispered by servants or mentioned in passing by visiting lords, but she'd never really thought about what it meant. Jon was just... Jon. Her brother who taught her games and helped her reach the high shelves in the library and always saved her the best pieces of honeycake at dinner.
"What's the difference?" Sansa asked quietly, though something in her stomach was beginning to twist uncomfortably. "Between a brother and a half-brother?"
Septa Mordane set down her own embroidery and looked at Sansa with kind eyes. "A brother shares both parents with you, child. Robb is your true brother because Lord Stark is his father and Lady Catelyn is his mother, just as they are yours. Jon is your half-brother because while Lord Stark is his father, his mother was... someone else."
Someone else. Sansa had never really wondered about Jon's mother before; he'd always just been part of their family, as natural as breathing. But now, suddenly, questions were blooming in her mind like flowers after rain.
"Who was his mother?" Sansa asked, though her voice was barely above a whisper.
"That's not for us to discuss, Lady Sansa. What matters is understanding your place in the world, and the places of others." Septa Mordane's voice was firm. "Jon is part of your household. But he is not the same as your true brothers. He cannot inherit your father's lands or titles. His children will not carry the Stark name. These distinctions matter in the world of lords and ladies."
Sansa nodded slowly, though her chest felt strange and tight. She thought about all the times Jon had sat next to her at the high table, how he'd always been included in family discussions, how Father's face lit up the same way when he looked at Jon as it did when he looked at Robb. Had she been seeing things wrong all along?
"Speaking of proper behavior," Septa Mordane continued, clearly eager to move away from the uncomfortable topic, "how are your little sister's lessons progressing? I confess I've heard some... concerning reports about Lady Arya's conduct."
Sansa's face scrunched up in distaste as she thought about her sister's latest adventures. "Arya doesn't want to learn anything proper. Yesterday she threw mud at my face during my embroidery lesson in the gardens. Mud, Septa! It got all over my new dress, and she just laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world."
The memory still made Sansa's cheeks burn with indignation. She'd been so proud of that dress, a beautiful blue silk that made her feel like a princess from the songs. And Arya had ruined it with dirt, as if beautiful things meant nothing at all.
"Children can be mischievous," Septa Mordane said diplomatically. "Your sister is still very young, barely three years old. When she grows older, she'll understand the importance of ladylike behavior. She'll want to be graceful and refined, just like you."
But Sansa wasn't so sure about that. Arya seemed to take active pleasure in being the opposite of everything a lady should be. She preferred Jon's company to anyone else's, followed him around like a loyal puppy, and seemed to think sword fighting was more interesting than needlework. Sometimes Sansa wondered if they were really sisters at all, or if Arya was some wild creature that had wandered in from the wolfswood.
"I hope so," Sansa said politely, though privately she doubted Arya would ever be a proper lady. "I try to set a good example for her."
"And you do, my dear. Your deportment is exemplary for a girl your age."
That evening at dinner, Sansa found herself studying the high table with new eyes. Father sat at the head, as always, with Mother on his right. Robb sat beside Mother, then herself, then Arya in her special chair, and baby Bran sleeping in his basket nearby. And on Father's left side sat Jon, exactly where he'd always sat, looking perfectly at home.
But now Sansa noticed things she'd never seen before. The way some of the servants' eyes lingered on Jon just a moment too long. The way visiting lords sometimes spoke to him with careful politeness rather than the easy familiarity they showed Robb. The way Mother's smiles were always slightly cooler when directed at Jon, though Sansa had always assumed that was just Mother's natural reserve.
"Half-brother," she murmured quietly as Jon passed her the bread, testing how the words felt on her tongue.
Jon's violet eyes flicked to her face, and for a moment she saw hurt flash across his features. But then he was smiling again, that easy, charming smile that made everyone like him, and Sansa wondered if she'd imagined it.
"Thank you, Sansa," he said normally, as if nothing had changed.
But something had changed. Sansa could feel it settling over her like a heavy cloak, this new understanding of how the world worked, of who belonged where and why. Jon was still Jon, still kind and funny and protective. But he wasn't her brother, not really.
Jon Snow (10)
The familiar sensation of floating away from his own body welcomed Jon like an old friend as sleep claimed him. One moment he was lying in his bed at Winterfell, still thinking about the way Sansa had called him "half-brother" tonight with that careful, distant politeness, and the next he was padding through sun-warmed corridors on four silent paws.
The Water Gardens were more beautiful than ever in the golden afternoon light, with fountains singing their eternal songs and orange trees heavy with fruit that perfumed the air. Jon-as-Balerion made his way through the familiar paths with growing excitement. These dreams had become more vivid over the years, more real, and his control over the cat's actions had improved dramatically.
He found her exactly where he'd hoped, sitting beside the largest fountain with her bare feet dangling in the clear water. Rhae had grown into her beauty over the past few years, her dark hair now reaching past her shoulders and her purple eyes bright with intelligence and mischief. At thirteen or fourteen, she walked like a Princess, at least, if Jon ever met one, he believed one should walk like her.
"There you are, you strange cat," she said without looking up as Balerion approached. "You're having one of your clever days again, aren't you? I can always tell by the way you walk."
Jon made the cat purr loudly and wound around her legs in greeting. She was right, of course. When he wasn't there, Balerion was just a normal cat who liked her company but didn't truly understand her words. But when Jon was present, everything changed.
"I was hoping you'd be intelligent today," Rhae continued, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. "I had the most dreadful morning. Maester Caleotte spent two hours trying to teach me the lineages of every great house in Westeros, as if I'll ever need to know who married whom three hundred years ago."
Jon managed to make Balerion cock his head and touch her knee with one paw, a gesture of sympathy that was distinctly un-catlike in its timing and precision.
"Exactly! You understand how tedious it was," Rhae said with delight. "Sometimes I think you're the only one who truly listens to me. Well, the only one besides Uncle Oberyn, but he's been busy with important princely duties lately."
Uncle Oberyn. Jon felt his one good eye widen with surprise. Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, was this girl's uncle? That would make her a Sand, a bastard like himself, but one born to a prince of Dorne.
"Uncle Oberyn stopped by during my needlework lesson yesterday," Rhae continued, her voice warming with obvious affection. "He took one look at my embroidery and declared it a crime against beauty itself. Then he convinced Septa Sarella to let us practice dancing instead, which was infinitely more entertaining."
Jon made Balerion nod enthusiastically, and Rhae laughed at the gesture.
"You approve of dancing over needlework too? I knew you had excellent taste." She leaned back on her hands, studying the cat with those familiar purple eyes. "You know, it's the strangest thing. Most of the time you're just a normal cat, friendly but simple. But sometimes, like now, you act like you actually understand everything I'm saying. Not just my tone, but the actual words."
Jon felt a flutter of nervousness. He'd been getting bolder in his responses, more obvious in his intelligence. But how could he explain something he didn't fully understand himself?
"The maesters would probably say I'm imagining it," Rhae said thoughtfully. "They'd claim cats can't really understand human speech, that I'm just seeing patterns where none exist. But I know the difference between your normal days and your clever days."
She was more perceptive than Jon had given her credit for. He made Balerion approach the fountain's edge and delicately dip one paw in the water, then use that paw to pat her hand gently.
"See? That's exactly what I mean," Rhae said with satisfaction. "A normal cat might drink from the fountain, but they wouldn't use the water to get my attention like that. It's almost like..." She paused, frowning slightly. "Like there's someone else in there sometimes. Someone who wants to comfort me."
The observation was so close to the truth that Jon nearly lost his connection to the cat entirely. Instead, he made Balerion purr loudly and nuzzle against her side.
"Uncle Oberyn is the only one who treats me like I'm actually interesting instead of just another obligation," Rhae continued, returning to safer topics. "Everyone else looks at me and sees what I am. A bastard who exists in the spaces between other people's lives, never quite belonging anywhere."
The loneliness in her voice was achingly familiar. Jon had felt that same isolation countless times, especially lately as the household began treating him with the careful politeness reserved for people who mattered but not quite enough.
Using careful movements, Jon made Balerion trace a simple pattern in the water droplets on the stone beside her: a rough approximation of a wolf's head.
Rhae stared at the wet marking with growing wonder. "A wolf? Are you trying to tell me something about wolves?" She looked at him with those penetrating purple eyes. "Or about the North? Winterfell has wolves on their banner, don't they?"
Jon made the cat nod slowly, his tail swishing with nervous excitement.
"Extraordinary," she breathed. "I have a cat who understands heraldry and responds to conversations about political isolation. Uncle Oberyn would find this absolutely fascinating, though he'd probably want to study you like one of his poisons."
She reached out to stroke his fur again, and Jon felt the warmth of her touch even through the dream. "You know what it's like, don't you? Being caught between worlds, never quite belonging anywhere? Even if you are just an unusually intelligent cat with mysterious moods."
If only she knew how well he understood. But for now, it was enough that she wasn't alone in her feelings, and neither was he.
As the dream began to fade around the edges, Jon heard her voice calling after him: "Come back soon, mysterious Balerion. Tomorrow I'll tell you about the time Uncle Oberyn tried to teach me to use a spear."
He woke in his own bed with a smile on his face and the scent of orange blossoms still lingering in his memory.
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